


De Profundis

by thefutureisbright



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Poetry, Set in 2003, Slow Burn, but no one dies and they killed Pennyfuck the first time, i fucked around with the timeline don't come for me, they're about 21/22 ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22019122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefutureisbright/pseuds/thefutureisbright
Summary: Considering it was the first time in just under a month that they had spent more than brief moments in the hallways together, small waves and tiny smiles at each other over the raging sea of other students, before one of them got swept up in the tide and was pulled away before greetings could be exchanged.“I’m going to take a lit elective,” Richie said, as easily as if he’d just told Eddie that it was going to snow the next day. “Oh, and it’s supposed to snow tomorrow”“Pardon?”“Yeah, the weather dude said we were supposed to get a few inches over-night, but I’ve got a few inches I can give him overnight if you catch my drift,” Richie said, grabbing at his crotch gratuitously.‘What? No -- gross. I’m not -- No. I meant the lit elective, you’re taking a lit class?”“Yup,” Richie said, popping the ‘p’ like it was bubblegum, “I got it all sorted a few weeks ago, actually. I’m taking the ‘poetry and experiment’ class”[Or, Ben starts a new literary journal for the University of Maine, and, unbeknownst to each other, Eddie and Richie start submitting poems under psuedonyms]Written for Holly as a [very late] Secret Santa gift!
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, very background Stanley Uris/Mike Hanlon, very very background Beverly Marsh/Ben Hanscom
Comments: 32
Kudos: 197





	De Profundis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Violetholly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetholly/gifts).



> [For Holly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetholly)

The first day of the rest of Eddie’s life fizzled like a dud firework. The University of Maine, those hallowed halls that Eddie had romantically-with-a-capital-R imagined himself walking down, books clutched in his hands, glasses that he didn’t need perched studiously on the end of his nose, had been the place that, according to the brochure, would _nurture_ him, would propel him forward to greatness with a great shove, and Eddie had eaten up these sickly promises greedily. In actuality, Sonia had dumped Eddie at the entrance to his dorm building with a sob and a screech, and, as soon as her car turned the corner and disappeared out of sight, the bottom of Eddie’s suitcase had given up and his clothes hit the pavement with a dull thud.

If Eddie had been the kind of person who cried, he’d have cried. He’d have dropped to his knees dramatically, thrown his head back and howled his woes at the grey-blue sky with his teeth bared. But he wasn’t. Eddie Kaspbrak didn’t cry. Instead, he swept as many articles of clothing as he could into his grasp and walked purposefully towards the registration desk.

“Eddie Kaspbrak, I’d sign my own name but … y’know, clothes” 

The girl sat behind the desk laughed. 

“I can see that, but I really do need your signature, otherwise I can’t hand over your keys”

“Seriously?”

“As a heart-attack, I’m afraid. I could take over on don’t-let-Eddie’s-jumpers-drag-along-the-floor duty whilst you sort yourself out though?”

“Are you sure?” Eddie asked, already thrusting the bundle of clothing at her, “you’re a _life-saver,_ I swear to God”

“Us members of the arrival survival team take our pledge very seriously, I’m just doing my job,” the girl said with an exaggerated shrug, sending a sleeve of one of Eddie’s shirts flying over her shoulder.

Eddie filled in the relevant paperwork, signing his name with an overemphasised flourish. The girl handed his clothing back, revealing the name tag that was pinned haphazardly to her sweater.

“Kay? You’re a peach. Thank you. Now, uh,” Eddie said, shifting his grip on the clothes so he didn’t drop his keys, “which way do I need to go? I think I’m in the Arthur Lewis building but I … have no idea where that is”

* * *

The diner smelt like three-day-old oil and loneliness, the kind that only those who sought solace under the flickering lights of a 24 hour diner will ever understand, and the bell jingled miserably when Eddie pushed the door open. He shook his head like a dog, droplets of rain water spraying the wall, much to the chagrin of the overworked and under-payed waitress.

“Eddie! Over here!”

A familiar voice cut through the clanging of pots and the low chatter of the other patrons of _Bob Grey’s Diner._

Eddie picked his way through the labyrinth of tables, before slumping down onto the crackled leather seat, immediately dropping his head onto Beverly’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he muttered, eyes closed against the artificial light of the sign buzzing in the window.

_BOB GR Y’S DIN R_

_BOB GR Y’S DIN R_

_BOB GR Y’S DIN R_

“You’re late,” Bev said, factually, but she didn’t look at him, instead continuing to push half-eaten eggs around her plate with a fork.

“I know, I got held up at home,” Eddie replied. It was a lie, a white lie but a lie nonetheless, and a lie that he knew Beverly would see right through, but he said it anyway.

“Hiya, Eds!”

“Don’t call me Eds, _Richard_ ”

It began almost immediately. Richie would lunge forward with an aborted attempt at humour, perhaps chastise Eddie for something, “ _why do you order like such an old woman, Eds?”_ and Eddie would parry with a “ _shut the fuck up, trash-for-brains”,_ before it’d start all over again. It was exhausting, and Eddie would limp off the battlefield with new wounds that would scab over and form fresh scars, but there was something intoxicating about it. The most fucked up mating ritual in the animal kingdom.

“Can I getcha anything, sweetheart?” the waitress asked, and Eddie snapped out of his introspection with a sharp jolt.

“Uh, maybe, yeah, yeah, hang on, uh, can I get the, uh – the eggs? But can I get them on whole-wheat instead of white bread, please? And, maybe, maybe the – uh – the orange juice? But no ice, oh and could you double check the eggs don’t come with pepper, please? Thank you, thank you so much”

He handed the menu back over to the disinterested waitress with a sheepish grin, and turned his attention back to the table, only to be met with that familiar Richie smirk.

The dance continued.

“So,” Richie began, and Eddie tensed, steeling himself. “So, you’ve decided you’re allergic to pepper now, too?”

“Pardon?” Eddie replied, shooting for bored but sailing straight past and landing on uptight.

“Pepper. _Could you, uh, could you maybe please maybe make sure there isn’t any of that nasty sneezy pepper on my uh, on my eggs? Thank you so much, thank you,”_

“Fuck you”

“If you ask nicely, sure”

“You’re incorrigible”

“That’s a big word for such a little boy”

“I’m going to garrotte you with Stan’s dental floss, don’t think I won’t, because I will, I’ll come at you in the night”

“I’m trembling in my boots, Spaghetti, honestly”

“Jesus, will you two either go fuck in the bathroom or shut up? You’re making my ears bleed,” Bev said, shoving at Richie with a playful but still sharp elbow.

The rest of the losers ignored them and their bickering, instead busying themselves with lamenting about their huge college workloads.

“Professor Sumner has really been on my ass this semester, I handed in three problem sheets yesterday and she’s _still_ not happy --”

“Yeah! I submitted my portfolio for the semester for grading four _weeks_ ago and I still haven’t had it back, every time I check my grade I feel like –”

“Oh Jesus and don’t even get me _started_ on how many exams I have when we get back after the Christmas break, just looking at my exam timetable is enough to –”

“I have _INTOLERANCES_ , Richard! It’s not my fucking fault pepper makes me _sneeze!_ ”

“Pepper makes _everyone_ sneeze, you moron!”

The monthly brunch was permanently etched into each of the Losers’ calendars on the last Sunday of every month. It was Mike’s idea. Initially, they’d tried to stick to a weekly schedule, dedicating each and every Sunday to each other, but the cracks had soon started to show. Stan was the first to become flaky, missing this Sunday and that, citing difficult homework or plans with new friends as the reason for not showing up. Then, Bill had stopped coming almost all-together, showing his face perhaps once a month at most, and even when he did, he’d disappear almost immediately after finishing his food. When they’d gone almost a whole month without seeing each other at all, Bev had rung Eddie with steel in her voice and demanded that he help her organise an intervention. Eddie had been reticent at first, having almost convinced himself that he was bizarrely content with letting the flame of their friendship die down, but then Richie had, without warning, turned up at his door with a blanket tucked under his arm and deep purple rings framing his eyes.

“I can’t sleep”

“Come in, Rich”

* * *

When they were in high school, they had always been EddieAndRichie. Inseparable, Maggie Tozier had called them. She cooed when they went to prom together, “ _just as friends, Eds, just friends, two bros, chillin’ in tuxes, totes platonic, you know the drill,”_ Richie had insisted, after badgering Eddie to tell him what colour tie he planned to wear so that they’d match. It was at this prom that they’d stood on the football field in the pouring rain and sworn that they’d apply to the University of Maine for college, that they’d convince the others to come too, but, more importantly, that they’d remain EddieAndRichie, no space, no room for anything, or anyone, else.

“It’s just you an’ me, Eds, s’how it’ll always be,” Richie had shouted, voice fighting against the torrent of water falling from the sky, and Eddie had nodded fervently. 

“You and me”

After senior prom, and the most bizarre moment of Eddie’s life, when Richie had lent in so close to Eddie’s face that he went cross-eyed, and Eddie was so _sure_ that Richie was going to kiss him, before he’d pulled away and lept out of his own mothers moving car at the intersection, everything had changed. 

It wasn’t a tectonic shift at first, nothing too dramatic or noticeable to the undiscerning eye. The movies that Eddie watched late at night when his mother was having her NyQuil nightmares told him, with their hazy colour palettes, that the summer between high school and college, when he was not a boy, not yet a man, was a transformative time, an eight week stretch that didn’t abide by such silly constraints as _time and space,_ when things, and people, changed and always, these movies insisted, _always,_ for the better.

The movies lied.

The morning after senior prom, Eddie woke before Richie. He grabbed his suit, where it lay crumpled in a sad little pile in the middle of Richie’s bombsite bedroom, and left without saying goodbye. Richie didn’t ring him. Eddie hovered around in the kitchen when he got home, but the phone didn’t ring. Around lunch time, Eddie sat at the kitchen table, pretending to be very interested _indeed_ in the story his mother was telling him about the woman who worked at the supermarket on a Wednesday and her mother’s brother’s son’s daughter’s scandalous second marriage. _Yes, mother, do please tell me more about this woman and her promiscuous affair with the postman while I sit here and wait for my best-friend-but-maybe-not-anymore to ring me to settle this tempest in my stomach._ The tempest raged on well into the evening, and the bland stew that Sonia Kaspbrak proffered went uneaten on the kitchen counter. 

Soon enough, and without consciously realising, Eddie stopped waiting for the phone to ring. 

* * *

“I can’t sleep”

“Come in, Rich”

Clasping the blanket tightly between his hands, Richie shuffled into the room. 

“This is weird”

“Is it?”

“Not really,” Richie said, flopping down onto Eddie’s bed. “That’s precisely _why_ it’s so weird”

Not knowing how to respond, Eddie busied himself putting his study materials away into neat piles. Pencils here, anthology of renaissance poetry there, a packet of post-its balanced neatly on top. 

“Are you okay?” Eddie asked, and Richie nodded his head in response, before pausing for a beat, and then shaking it.

“Not really, Eddie Spaghetti, not really”

“Oh.”

A pause. A pause that stretched for slightly too long, and then a great, deafening silence. Richie lay on the bed, arm thrown dramatically over his eyes, and Eddie stood awkwardly in the corner of his own room, a stranger imposing on an intimate moment, made even more painful by the fact that he didn’t know whether he was allowed to console Richie anymore, or whether Richie would shrug him off as he would a barely-there acquaintance. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Eddie asked dutifully, but remained shielded by the comfort of his corner, a poignant distance maintained between them.

“Ah,” Richie said, a glint in his eye that Eddie didn’t recognise, “don’t worry about it. I’m fine, really I am. Just got a case of can’t-sleep-itis. I’ll survive, the prognosis looks pretty good”

Considering it was the first time in just under a month that they had spent more than brief moments in the hallways together, small waves and tiny smiles at each other over the raging sea of other students, before one of them got swept up in the tide and was pulled away before greetings could be exchanged.

“I’m going to take a lit elective,” Richie said, as easily as if he’d just told Eddie that it was going to snow the next day. “Oh, and it’s supposed to snow tomorrow”

“Pardon?”

“Yeah, the weather dude said we were supposed to get a few inches over-night, but I’ve got a few inches I can give _him_ overnight if you catch my drift,” Richie said, grabbing at his crotch gratuitously. 

‘What? No -- gross. I’m not -- No. I meant the lit elective, you’re taking a lit class?”

“Yup,” Richie said, popping the ‘p’ like it was bubblegum, “I got it all sorted a few weeks ago, actually. I’m taking the ‘ _poetry and experiment_ ’ class”

“Ben’s taking that, he said he’s enjoying it so far, he said it was helping him push the boundaries of genre, and he said that --”

“Are we a prospectus now? _Push the boundaries of genre?”_

“That’s what Ben said!” Eddie said, defensively, and crossed his arms over his chest. Richie laughed at him, a laugh that Eddie had never heard before, that sounded more like a shaky gasp than genuine laughter. 

“C’mere, you moron. Why are you stood in the corner, all blair-witchy?”

“I dunno”

“Yes, you do”

“No, I’m just -- stood. There isn’t a reason for --”

“Yes, there is”

“No there isn’t!”

“Eds...”

“ _Richard”_

“Come sit with me”

“Okay”

As he sat down next to Richie, Eddie could feel his heart thumping like a pneumatic drill, hammering against the cage of his ribs. He was sure that Richie could hear it too, but if he could, Richie didn’t mention it. All he did was swoop his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and tug him down, and Eddie squawked as he fell, but he still let Richie rearrange his limbs so they were sat close together, Richie tucked around Eddie’s side neatly. 

“Have you spoken to Bev?” Eddie asked.

“Hmm,” Richie hummed, stroking a hand through Eddie’s hair thoughtfully. “She rang me yesterday, something about getting the old gang back together. What do you think?”

“I nearly said no”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I nearly said that I didn’t care if we all drifted apart, that that’s what happens to people when you go to college, everyone says so”

“Not everyone fought, and brutally murdered, a demonic clown from outer space with their friends before they’d even finished going through puberty, some of us _still_ haven’t finished going through --”

The sentence died in Richie’s mouth as Eddie pummelled him with closed fists, shrieking as he did so.

“Fuck you, Richard!”

“Hey! Hey now, I’m -- Jesus, short-stack, I was _joking!_ Suspend the attack, call off the troops, _ooof!”_

After flipping Richie off, Eddie turned so he was lying on his side, so that his back was flush against Richie’s front.

“I know, I -- I guess I was starting to forget”

“Forget?”

“Forget what it was like when we were all together, that -- that feeling I get in my gut when I’m with you all, like -- like _this is where I’m supposed to be,_ you know? Like, _these are my people_ ”

Richie nodded. 

“Yeah, yeah I get you. I said yes, but mainly because I was scared Red would come at me with those massive fabric shears if I said no”

With that, all of the tension drained out of the room, and out of Eddie’s spine. They spent the evening in Eddie’s bed, always curled around each other, always talking in hushed tones, always breathing in sync. When he was sure that Richie was in a deep sleep, Eddie, trying not to think too much about the reasons why, logged onto the college portal and swapped out ‘ _contemporary literary theory and its applications’_ for ‘ _poetry and experiment’,_

When Eddie woke in the morning, Richie had gone. 

* * *

The next time Eddie saw Richie was just under a week later, when Richie loped into the seminar room for _Poetry and Experiment._ Eddie, who always sat next to a very enthusiastic Benjamin Hanscom, shrunk down in his seat, as if he could hide behind the three large textbooks on his table. No such luck.

“Well, fancy seeing you two fine feathered fellas here!”

“Hiya, Richie! Eddie told me you were going to start taking this course, it’s great to have you!” Ben said, pulling out the empty chair next to him, before gesturing for Richie to sit down.

“Ah, yes, he told me that you’d be here, handsome, but not that he took this course also! Holding out on me, Kaspbrak?”

“Well, actually, Eddie has only just transferred to this course, he dropped --”

“Hey! Ben, esslay ofyay ethay ansferredtray,” Eddie hissed at Ben, but Richie just raised an eyebrow in challenge. 

“oureyay utecay enwhay oureyay anickedpay. You’re not the only one that speaks Pig Latin here, Eds”

“Shut up”

“Ever the charmer, isn’t he, Ben? Just gets my heart a’thumpin,” Richie said, before he reached down into his backpack and pulled out a notebook. “Right, I don’t know about you but I’m ready to flex my poetry muscles, you up for the challenge, Kaspbrak?”

“Bring it on, _Richard_ ” 

* * *

The seminar was a disaster. Each of the students stood up at the end of the two hour session to read out what they had so far, and Eddie was the last to go. He stood up with trembling knees and read from his notebook in wavering, hushed tones.

“...That way, she’d live forever. That’s, uh, that’s all I’ve got”

Richie yawned, long, dramatic, and fake, from his corner of the room.

“Blank verse? Pretty uninspired, Eds. It’s okay, though, we can’t all be John Milton, no hard feelings”

“At least I don’t have a stupid fucking TS Eliot tattoo,” Eddie shot back lightning fast, face immediately creasing in embarrassment when the professor shot up, scolding him for his profanity.

“Now, enough! Sit down you two. Eddie, that poem was a good start indeed, but I am tempted to side with Richie on this, blank verse was certainly the easy way out. I have a few other notes …”

Immediately after the seminar had ended and the professor had dismissed them, Eddie shot out of the room as quickly as a buttered bullet.

“Eddie! Wait!” 

It was Ben.

“I have a message to deliver to the whole class, could you come back a sec?”

Reluctantly, Eddie slunk back into the classroom to find Ben stood at the front of the room, several pieces of paper in his hands.

“Right, as most of you, or at least some of you, know, I’ve wanted to start an undergraduate literary journal here at U of M for some time, and I managed to convince the dean to give me the funding so … here we are! I’ve got enough writers for the criticism and stuff, but I need some essayists and poets to flesh out the fiction sections. If you want to submit work, please take a signup sheet! Thanks, guys!” 

As soon as Ben had stopped talking, and a small huddle of people had gathered around him, Eddie slipped out of the room again.

“Eds! Wait!”

It was Richie

“Jesus, I didn’t know such little legs could move so fast,” he continued, jogging to catch up with Eddie who didn’t slow down. 

“What do you want, Richie?”

“Not signing up for the journal? I thought you’d want to submit _She Who Mocks_ or something”

“Naw, like the professor said, it was uninspired,” Eddie mumbled, taking a sharp left turn, almost losing Richie to the thrum of the crowds in the process.

“I don’t think the _prof_ used that word, Eds, and I was just ribbing you when I said it, you know that”

“Drop it, Rich. I’m not signing up”

“Well, neither am I, so you’re in good company. Mike ran into me earlier and said that he and Stan were going to be at the ‘bucks, shall we?”

“Never call it ‘ _the ‘bucks’_ again and you’ve got yourself a deal”

* * *

**To: BenjaminH@hotmail.com:**

So … this journal thing

**From: BenjaminH@AOL.com:**

you gonna sign up? :O

**To: BenjaminH@AOL.com:**

Thinking about it. What do I have to do?

**From: BenjaminH@AOL.com:**

send me the poem you’d like to submit, and if it’s successful it’ll be in the Christmas vol which will be published just b4 the end of this semester!!!!!!

**To: BenjaminH@AOL.com:**

  1. If I do submit something, which I might not, you can’t tell R



**From: BenjaminH@AOL.com:**

why?

**To: BenjaminH@AOL.com:**

Just don’t, okay? 

**From: BenjaminH@AOL.com:**

he likes u, u know

**To: BenjaminH@AOL.com:**

*rolling eye emoji*

**From: BenjaminH@AOL.com:**

Send it to my college email when you’re done x

Eddie logged off of AOL messenger, opened a blank word document, and took a deep breath.

* * *

Eddie had almost forgotten about the literary journal when a copy of _The Maine Literary Review_ landed in his pigeon hole one frosty December morning. He blinked stupidly at the journal for a few seconds, before he picked it up gingerly, as if it might explode in his hands. Holding his breath, and anxious for a reason he couldn’t place, he flicked to the contents page, and there it was, in size twelve Calibri font. 

_Birdbones_ by Mr Bleaney (p. 23)

“Huh,” Eddie breathed out loud to no one but himself. “ _Huh”_

He was now, technically, a published poet. Edward F. Kaspbrak, _published poet._ It had a ring to it. Not that anyone would know that he, demure little Eddie, had actually _written_ birdbones, and if anyone asked, of course he’d deny ownership. But he knew, and that was enough.

He scanned the rest of the contents page briefly, and his eye was caught by one particular name.

 _You_ by De Profundis (p. 24)

Eddie rolled his eyes. _De Profundis._ Almost certainly a pseudonym chosen for the writers affinity for Oscar Wilde.. He flicked to page twenty-four, and read the sonnet once, twice, three times before he shoved the journal in the front zip pocket of his backpack. Trite. That was the word that most accurately described what he had just read. Trite, with a sort of cloying optimism that turned Eddie’s stomach and made his teeth itch.

When he returned to his dorm in the brief interlude between classes, he started jotting a few lines of verse down, mind swimming with _You, You, You,_ and then, before he’d given it much conscious thought, a new poem was staring up at him, fresh and shiny. And, within it, a small, barely-there jab at De Profundis. 

_… From the depths of vacuity, he sits, Promethean, …._

When he found the time, Eddie typed the poem up and sent it off to Ben without giving it a second thought.

* * *

“You’re late again”

“I know, I know”

“Richie’s late too”

“I know”

“You walked in together”

“I am aware”

“Do you have anything you’d like to --”

“Absolutely not,” Eddie said, turning his body away from Bev and her inquisition, and towards Mike and Stan who were currently debating the merits of IHOP syrup over the stuff Stan buys at Trader Joes.

Richie sat next to Eddie, elbows on the table, head cradled in the palm of his hands. He was watching Eddie. Eddie could see him, out of the corner of his eye, helped by the fact that Richie was making no attempt to hide his gaze. 

“Have I got syrup on my face?” Eddie asked eventually, squirming under Richie’s gaze.

“Nope”

“A bit of pancake? A forgotten smudge of shaving foam?”

“Don’t joke, Eds, we all know you don’t need to shave yet”

“Asshole,” Eddie scolded, and he tried to shove at Richie with his hand but Richie caught it mid-air, and pulled it down towards the familiar crackled leather of the booth. 

Eddie tried to pull his hand away, but Richie held tight, wrapping Eddie’s smaller hand up in his. They weren’t holding hands, not really, but Eddie’s hand was soft and pliant in Richie’s and it _almost_ felt like _something,_ something that _just friends_ don’t do. 

“So,” Ben started, drumming his fingers on the table in what Eddie imagined Ben hoped looked inconspicuous, “the first volume of my journal came out”

“I’m so proud of you, babe,” Bev said, running a hand through Ben’s sandy hair. 

“Aw, I barely did anything. I had some really great submissions, actually. Especially from two poets in particular, really chalk and cheese, but I put them together because --”

The rest of Ben’s sentence faded to white noise as Eddie felt Richie’s hand tense around his. Eddie looked up at Richie, and was met with a soft smile and a squeeze for his efforts. 

“You okay?” Richie whispered.

“I’m fine, I’m great, yeah, it’s all groovy”

“ _Groovy?”_

“S’what I said”

“Why are you nervous?”

“I’m not nervous”

“Yes you are”

“M’not”

“Is it because I’m holding your hand?”

“Absolutely not”

And, as if to prove it, Eddie wiggled his fingers in between Richie’s, interlocking them so that they were holding hands properly.

“Eddie, have you looked at Ben’s journal yet? Inquiring minds want to know,” Stan asked, an innocent enough question but panic shot through Eddie’s spine like adrenaline.

“Uh, sort of. I had a flick through, I wasn’t that impressed”

Richie’s thumb stilled from where it was rubbing small circles on Eddie’s skin.

“You weren’t?” Ben asked, sounding mildly hurt.

“Oh, I mean, it was put together beautifully and your editor's note was brilliant, and some of the essays were very good, very original stuff about _Frankenstein_ and I liked the thought piece about the influence of Icelandic ghost stories on nineteenth-century culture, but some of the poems were …"

Eddie paused, and Richie didn’t breathe.

“Some of the poems were awful”

“Awful?” Richie asked, voice quieter and more serious than Eddie had heard it in a long time.

“Well, maybe not _awful_ but … cliché. Chocolate box poetry, a dime a dozen type stuff”

“Care to name drop any particularly awful pieces?”

“Well, that _birdbones_ poem was pretty shite, and the pseudonym was ridiculous”

“You like that Larkin poem, though. You read it to me when we moved out of Derry, said that it made you feel old and young all at the same time,” Richie said, voice even but Eddie could sense there existed an undercurrent of annoyance.

“Well yes, but … still,” Eddie finished feebly, waving his hands around as if they could speak better than his mouth.

“Huh,” was all Richie said, before excusing himself to the bathroom, and, without providing an explanation to the rest of his friends, Eddie followed him. 

Richie was standing in front of the sink when Eddie pushed his way into the men’s room, staring at himself in the grimey mirror.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asked, leaning against the wall and trying not to think about the hundreds of other patrons who had also leant against that very wall, very probably without having washed their hands or their other appendages properly.

“Huh? Me? I’m fine, Eddie Spaghetti, don’t you worry about me”

“I’m not worried, I’m just … concerned”

“Eddie,” Richie laughed, turning around, “they’re synonyms. They mean the same thing”

“No they don’t!” Eddie insisted, “they mean entirely different things. Worry is more extreme, I am … diluted worry, worry with added water”

“Whatever you say, my little worrywart,” Richie said, pushing his way out of the bathroom to re-join the others at their booth. Eddie followed, unconvinced but not willing to push it further.

* * *

The next volume of _The Maine Literary Review_ landed in Eddie’s pigeon hole three weeks after Christmas break. As he had before, Eddie flicked to the contents page with shaking fingers. And, as had been the case before, there he was, or rather, there Mr Bleaney was, right there, immortalised on the page.

 _From the Depths_ by Mr Bleaney (p. 14)

 _Eighteen_ by De Profundis (p. 15)

There they were, right next to each other, nestled on opposite pages like the best of friends. The name of Eddie’s poem would surely catch the attention of De Profundis, and if that didn’t, the reference in the poem surely would, if De Profundis would actually bother to read Eddie’s poem, of course.

* * *

Eddie would always remember the first time De Profundis namechecked him in one of their poems. He’d been idly flicking through the Journal, not having been enticed by the title of his self-proclaimed rivals offering, – _The Sailor Who Fell From The Stars –_ and he’d decided to briefly scan the poem when a particular stanza caught his eye.

_From the depths of vacuity_

_All I see are flowered curtains, thin and frayed,_

_Falling to within five inches of the sill._

_Do you warrant better? I don’t know …._

A fist made of stone and poetry punched Eddie in the stomach. De Profundis used his words. De Profundis used his words, spat them back in his face, and then stamped on them for good measure. 

This was, as far as Eddie was concerned, a declaration of war, and Eddie wasn’t about to surrender. 

* * *

_Void._ by Mr Bleaney (1st Feb 2003)

… _the winds are cold and so are you,_

_baseless insults, show yourself …._

_Testify_ by De Profundis (11th March 2003)

… _the winds grow tired of your howling, the void will spit you out …._

_Everything_ by Mr Bleaney (23rd April 2003)

_one day_

_you will bleed the words I_

_breathed into your skin_

_and there will be no bandage_

_and you will rot in a pool of naïve_

_sincerity you never deserved_

_sssssstutter_ by De Profundis (15th May 2003)

… _my fuh-fuh-friend, don’t bluh-bluh-bleed on the carpet,_

_Your wuh-words will stain …_

_I am not your friend_ by Mr Bleaney (4th June 2003)

_See above._

“Eddie,” Ben sighed, the crackle of the phone signal obscuring his words somewhat, “That last submission wasn’t really a poem, was it”

“Who are you, Benjamin Hanscom, to tell _me_ that that wasn’t a poem. You’re telling me that that doesn’t count as a post-structuralist, postmodernist attempt to subvert the reader's expectations about what poetry actually _is_ and force them to look _up_ for answers? Up to the _title_ , perhaps? You need to broaden your horizons, Sir”

“Eddie.”

“Yes, yes, fine. I know it was a bullshit excuse for a poem, but you didn’t have to publish it!” Eddie said, voice verging on shrill.

Ben sighed. “Yes I did. You would have accused me of ‘ _not appreciating your art’_ if I didn’t. And, at any rate, I heard from De Profundis a few days before”

“... You did?”

“Yes. He asked if you’d sent in a response to _stutter_ ”

“Ssssstutter,” Eddie corrected, causing Ben to laugh. “Why did he want to know?”

“Ask him yourself”

Eddie rolled his eyes, but, upon realising that Ben couldn’t see him roll his eyes over the phone, Eddie just groaned. 

“I’ve got to go, I’m meeting Rich at _Coffee Hoppers_ in 10”

“Enjoy your date”

“Thanks -- wait, I mean, it’s not a date! Ben! It’s not a --”

Ben had already hung up.

* * *

When Eddie arrived at the warm, hazily lit coffee shop, Richie was already there, sat on one of the plush, squishy sofas in the corner with two steaming mugs sat in front of him on the table.

“Hey, Rich. What do I owe you?” Eddie said, sitting down next to Richie.

“Naw, I got you, Eds. It’s my pleasure to keep you in your disgustingly sweet coffee-but-not-really drinks,” Richie said, batting his eyelashes at Eddie.

Although it had no reason to be, the atmosphere was charged. They were sat close together, knees knocking every time one of them shifted, but this was no unusual thing. They often sat close together, if not on top of each other, Richie’s legs sprawled across Eddie’s lap, or Eddie perched on the end of Richie’s knees when they were in Bill’s beaten up old truck. No, the unusual thing about _this_ particular coffee date, was the fact that as soon as Eddie sat down, Richie grabbed his hand.

“So,” Richie started, “the new volume of Ben’s journal comes out tomorrow”

“Does it?”

“Yup. Have you been keeping up with it?”

“Sort of, not really, I don’t know. Have you seen the new adaptation they’re doing of that Stephen King book? It looks pretty good, Bill said’ he’d go see it with me, I know that --”

“Ah, yeah yeah, I’ve seen the advert. It looks … fine. Why’re you going with Big Bill, though?”

Eddie blinked.

“Because … he likes films like that?”

“So do I,” Richie huffed, knitting his eyebrows in a way that should look petulant but instead just looks endearing.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, _Oh”_

“Do you, I mean -- you don’t have to, but would you like --”

“Eddie Spaghetti, it would be an honour to escort you to the movies to get our scream on”

“Our scream on?” Eddie said faintly, and Richie laughed.

“Y’know, like, screaming at horror movies. Get your mind out of the gutter, you dirty bird”

Well before Eddie was ready to let Richie go, the clock struck four in the afternoon, and Richie had to leave to pick up his shift at the local video store. 

“I’ll ring you about arranging our movie date, Eds,” Richie said, wriggling into his jacket and smoothing his hair down.

Eddie laughed. “Yeah, yeah, our _date_ ”

“Um. Yeah? Like, holding hands in the dark, I’ll buy the popcorn if you buy the tickets, type thing?”

“Oh, like, a _real_ real date?”

“I mean -- I thought that much was obvious, Eds”

“Uh -- I guess it is now. I’ll ring you, or you ring me -- you ring me, yeah, I’ll wait for your call, or I’ll -- yeah. Date”

“You’re ridiculous, Spaghetti head”

And with that, Richie was planting a kiss on the top of Eddie’s head, before bustling out of the coffee shop and disappearing out of view.

On the table, lay a book. It was face down, and Eddie grabbed it, standing up with the intention of chasing after Richie, who had forgotten it, but he thought better of it. He’d give it back to Richie in their next _Poetry and Experiment_ seminar, or on their … date. Whichever came first. 

Eddie sat back down, and turned the book around to look at the cover.

_De Profundis and Other Writings_

_Oscar Wilde_

_Penguin Classics_

Huh.

There were several small pieces of paper sticking out of the book, and Eddie could see that the pieces were littered with the familiar scribbled scrawl of Richie’s writing. With curiosity getting the better of him, Eddie gently tugged a few of the pieces of paper out of the book.

The first piece had a few lines from a Keats poem scribbled on it, 

_Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes,_

_And sweet is the voice in its greeting,_

_When adieus have grown old and goodbyes_

_Fade away where old Time is retreating._   
  


The second had a stanza of a poem Eddie didn’t recognise written on it, but the last, the last one he did recognise. It was only a line, but it was a line he’d stared at for hours, trying to come up with a response, wracking his brain, willing his fingers. 

_the winds grow tired of your howling, the void will spit you out_  
  


Without even thinking, Eddie could name the poem, and the author. 

De Profundis.

Could it … ?

The bell above the door of the coffee shop rang out, and Eddie’s head snapped up. Richie was walking back over to him, hair and coat damp with late winter rain. Eddie shoved the pieces of paper back into the book with trembling fingers.

“Sorry, Eds, forgot my,” Richie gestured at the book sat bereft on the table, before picking it up and tucking it into his messenger bag.

Eddie nodded wordlessly. 

“Okay well, I really gotta run, so I’ll see you -- later?”

Eddie nodded again, face contorted into a grimace that, try as he might, wouldn’t be chased off of his face. Richie left without another word, but shot glances at Eddie over his shoulder until he disappeared from view once more. 

* * *

“You’re … early,” Bev said, swirling the straw around in her Bloody Mary.

“I know”

“Is Richie not with you?”

“Nope”

“Where is he?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Eddie snapped, regretting it immediately when Bev’s eyebrows shot up. “Sorry, I just -- stressed. I have a lot of homework due”

“Hmmm,” Bev hummed, unconvinced, but her train of thought was interrupted by Richie’s arrival.

“Good afternoon, fellow human people!” He said, slotting into the booth next to Eddie. 

“Hullo, Rich” Mike said, ignoring Richie’s request for a fist bump in favour of continuing to absently scritch a hand through Stan’s hair.

“Lame,” Richie shot back, before turning to Eddie. “I’ve looked at the showing times for the movie, can you do Friday?”

“Uh, no. I’ve got -- homework”

“Sunday?”

“Homework”

“Next Tuesday?”

“Uh, homework,” Eddie supplied feebly, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Oh, uh -- okay. Maybe you could pick the date then? Let me know when you’re free?” Richie said, the timidity of his voice tugging at Eddie’s heart.

“Yeah, yeah -- I’ll ring you”

The conversation ebbed and flowed for several hours, before Richie, drunk as a skunk, began to tap on his glass with a spoon covered in whipped cream.

“Attention! Ladies and germs, can I have your attention”

“Jesus Christ,” Stan said, rolling his eyes. “About to announce that you’re pregnant with Eddie’s child, finally?”

“What? Ew, gross. Not everyone shares your fondness for MPREG fanfiction, Stanley,” Richie said, earning a fork to the head for his trouble. “No, I have _another_ announcement to make. I, Richard “Big Dick” Tozier, am a published poet”

Eddie’s stomach dropped to the floor.

“Yes, it’s true,” Richie continued, “I have been sending in work to Benny-boy’s little journal and he’s been publishing it! Fancy that, you all being in the presence of a celebrity”

“Hey, Rich! That’s pretty cool!” Mike said, reaching over the table to shake Richie’s hand.

“I thought you told me not to tell anyone?” Ben asked.

“Yeah, I didn’t want _you_ telling anyone, but this is _me_ telling everyone, so that’s different,” Richie said, sitting back down and he leant his head against Eddie’s shoulder.

“Are you proud of me, Eds?”

“Yes, very proud,” Eddie deadpanned, wringing his hands in his lap.

“I have a rival, you know. I’m Byron, and ‘Mr Bleaney,” Richie mocked, “‘ _Mr Bleaney’_ is Polidori”

“Oh really?” Eddie said, trying to keep his voice as calm and even.

“Yup! He started it, taking the piss out of my pseudonym, when his is _just_ as stupid. You said so yourself! That stupid Larkin poem. I know you like it, Eds, but I don’t. Too bleak. And his poetry,” Richie mock-retched, “ _God_ is it depressing. Not a single hopeful theme, would it kill the guy to use a happy metaphor for once? Even _your_ poetry is less dull”

“My poetry?”

“Yup! You’re a much better writer than _Mr Bleaney”_

“Good to know,” Eddie replied sharply, but Richie was already distracted, talking to Ben about his latest submission.

After brunch, Eddie disappeared before Richie could stop him.

* * *

The first time Eddie realised he liked Richie in a more-than-friends sort of way, they’d been sitting in the back of Bill’s rusty old truck, on their way to the drive-in. It was the night before Halloween, and their local drive-in was showing back to back classic Zombie films into the early hours of the morning. Bill had bribed all of the Loser’s to go with him, with the promise of all-they-could eat popcorn, a promise Richie took as a challenge. They had been sat together in the truck bed, three blankets wrapped around their shoulders, huddled together for warmth. Richie had hooked an arm around Eddie’s shoulder and pulled him in, so that Eddie’s head was nestled neatly in the crook of Richie’s neck. 

“I’ll keep you warm, Eds, don’t you worry. I won’t let you turn into an eds-icle”

“You’re jokes are so fuckin’ lame, Rich”

“You love them,” Richie had said confidently, eyes sparkling in the late October moonlight, and Eddie was sucker punched by the realisation that it wasn’t just Richie’s jokes that he loved.

* * *

Nearly a month later, someone knocked at Eddie’s door, a knock that was shortly followed by a muffled voice.

“Eddie?”

A pause.

“Eddie? I know you’re in there”

Another pause. Eddie held his breath.

“Eds, please”

Breath escaped Eddie’s lips without permission.

“Rich?” he called out from the safety of his blanket nest, voice hoarse from lack of use.

“Eddie”

Another pause.

Richie sighed audibly from behind the door. “Eddie, I can’t sleep.” 

“Have you tried counting sheep?” Eddie said, and he shifted from the confines of his bed, padded across the room with silent steps, and stood with his arm extended, palm flat against the wood of the door.

“I’m sorry,” Richie said, and Eddie pulled his hand back from the door, as if he’d been burnt.

“What?”

“I said I’m -- I’m sorry”

“What for?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I’m sure I did _something_ that made you pull away from me like this, and whatever it was, I’m sorry”

The large, angry lump in Eddie’s throat refused to be swallowed.

“Richie, _Rich,_ you haven’t -- you haven’t done anything”

“Then why won’t you let me _in?”_ Richie pleaded, voice cracking, and that was enough, enough of a catalyst to tug on Eddie’s poor, weary heart.

Eddie wrenched the door open, and Richie all but fell onto his chest. 

“Rich, _I’m_ the one who should be saying sorry, I’ve been an asshole”

“No you haven’t”

“Yes I have!”

“Well … maybe a tiny bit of an asshole. I just -- I don’t get it”

Eddie shrugged, arms still wrapped loosely around Richie’s shoulders. “There isn’t really much to get, I’m just an asshole who doesn’t deserve friends like you, I guess”

Richie looked up, eyes shiny. “Friends?”

“Uh --” Eddie stammered, “I don’t know, Rich. You mess with my head, you know”

“You mess with mine too,” Richie said, and then they said nothing more, just stood in the middle of Eddie’s shitty little dorm room, and embraced.

When Eddie woke in the morning, Richie was gone. What lay in his place, next to Eddie’s head on the pillow, was a note.

_I’ll wait for you at Coffee Hoppers after class_

_My bounty is as boundless as the sea,_

_My love as deep; the more I give to thee,_

_The move I have, for both are infinite._

_R x_

As the piece of paper fluttered to the floor, Eddie knew what it was that he must do. 

* * *

_I Loved You First_ by Mr Bleaney (21st August 2003)

_I loved you first: but afterwards your love_

_Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song_

_As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove._

_Which owes the other most? My love was long,_

_And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;_

_I loved and guessed at you, you construed me_

_And loved me for what might or might not be –_

_Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong._

_For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine’;_

_With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,_

_For one is both and both are one in love:_

_Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’_

_Both have the strength and both the length thereof,_

_Both of us, of the love which makes us one._

By Mr Bleaney / Eds.

* * *

Hammering on the door.

“ _EDDIE!”_

Silence.

“ _EDDIE!_ Seriously, open the fucking door!”

More hammering.

“ _Eddie! --”_

The door opened and two bodies collide.

“How long have you --”

“I didn’t know how to tell you --”

“You write so beautifully --”

“I love you --”

“I love you --”

“Rich?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up”

With a renewed boldness, Eddie leant in and pressed his lips to Richie’s, and, for the first time, they wrote poetry together.

**Author's Note:**

> Eddie's final poem, _I Loved You First_ is a Christina Rossetti poem. Also, De Profundis' poem _The Sailor Who Fell From The Stars_ also has some lines of Philip Larkin's poem _Mr Bleaney_ in it, for obvious reasons. The other snippets of poems I wrote myself, which is why they are awful. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


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